Nora listened without interrupting, her hands locked around the wheels of her chair. When Evelyn finished, Nora asked whether the girl survived. Evelyn said both children were pulled back through the barrier by hikers before the rescue crew reached Nora below. The family had left the hospital before officers collected names. Evelyn knew only that their van had an out-of-state plate and a paper bluebird taped inside the rear window. The missing witness had become another blank space everyone treated as empty.

The story relieved Nora for less than a minute. Then she became angry. She had entered a closed area, whatever her reason. She said knowing she had tried to help did not restore sensation in her left foot or add therapy days. I agreed. I also told her the truth mattered even when it did not repair the injury. She turned toward the window and asked why Evelyn had waited three weeks. Evelyn looked at her tool bag and said she had reported everything twice, then assumed silence meant someone more official knew better.

Malik requested dispatch recordings and maintenance logs. The county produced a radio transcript with a twelve-minute gap caused by equipment testing. Evelyn's receiver had captured that gap automatically. On her memory card, beneath static, a county worker warned that the blue survey ties on the overlook rail marked loose anchor bolts, not a completed repair. Another voice said the closure sign would be enough until Monday. Nora fell on Saturday. The coin's chipped edge held part of one brittle survey tie.

Evidence of poor maintenance did not identify the children, but it changed the county's posture. Its risk manager asked for a private meeting. Malik declined until all records were preserved. That night, I unfolded Nora's map again. A coffee stain near the legend looked familiar. Inside the stain was the faint outline of a bluebird, drawn in ballpoint. On the back, pressed so lightly I saw it only under the kitchen lamp, were seven digits and the words Call Gran if lost.